


As A Survivor

by Westgate (Harkpad)



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Clint Needs a Hug, Drama, Gen, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-25
Updated: 2013-06-25
Packaged: 2017-12-16 04:43:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/857925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harkpad/pseuds/Westgate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint gets stuck on a talk show giving an interview and the guy asks him to give some advice to kids. Do they realize what he does for a living? Later, he figures out that he might, might have something to offer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As A Survivor

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to lexxorz for beta coolness. This is a Very Vague response to an avengerkink prompt that asked for Clint not being good with kids. This really doesn't go there, but that's where the idea came from. Warning: Vague Reference to child abuse (so vague, but you know your triggers).

 

“Hawkeye, we’ve done some research and found that you come from quite humble beginnings and made quite the career for yourself before you became an Avenger. You then became an Avenger due to incredible skill, a skill you practiced, perfected, and honed over many years, since you were a very young man, actually. One might even say that you had to fight your way to your spot on this team.”

A talk show. Clint couldn’t believe it. They’d done interview panels, they’d done news shows, and they’d done their fair share of press meetings. Someone in PR finally decided they should try the talk show circuit, and Clint was not pleased. He was decked out in a silver suit picked out by Tony, and he was uncomfortable on way too many levels, the least of which was dealing with the slimy host seated across from him.

Clint shrugged, unsure of where the reporter was going with this. He always gets antsy when someone refers to his teenage years – anyone who had knowledge about that when he didn’t share it with them was someone to watch out for. What the reporter called ‘research,’ Clint called ‘digging.’ He didn’t want anyone digging.

“You’ve come a long way since Iowa, wouldn’t you say?” the guy asked. His voice was that buttery bland, smooth and seemingly innocuous news-reporter voice, the kind that can discuss a murder on 71st Street and the upcoming Tony Awards in the same tone.

Clint doesn’t like it, but he has to answer.

“I guess so,” he replied, hoping it’s enough. He’s sure as shit not going to ‘expand’ any answer dealing with Iowa.

The reporter leaned forward, a fake plastic smile on his face, and Clint wondered what kinds of people actually buy anything this guy sells.

“What would you say to other young men and women who are struggling in unique positions right now? What advice can you give to kids who have a skill to perfect and a desire to become something of a super hero themselves?” The guy’s eyes betrayed a certain privilege, a complete disconnect to whatever fantasy poor-kid world he’s trying to refer to in his question, and it angered Clint.

He also doesn’t know what to say.

So he sat for a minute, used the water glass on the table next to him as a distraction, fidgeted with his silver and purple tie, and leaned back in his chair, trying not to frown. Phil had said that frowning on TV was bad. Clint thinking on his feet in an interview was also pretty bad, unless it was to snark, and he didn’t think snark was going to help him here.

He swallowed the ‘that wasn’t on the list of questions you gave me’ that wanted to come out of his mouth because he didn’t want to sound stupid or defensive, both of which would be the impression if he relied on the list to bail him out.

“Well,” he started, not exactly sure of where he was going. “I’m not much of one for advice, really.” Self-deprecation could always work as a diversion, he supposed.

The reporter was fake and oily, and too much of a salesman, but he wasn’t stupid, as it turned out. He saw what Clint was doing. “Oh, don’t sell yourself short. You’re an Avenger, a team a lot of people look up to, admire, depend on. Surely you have some advice to give to kids today.”

Clint shrugged again. He was probably doing too much of that. He figured the PR people at SHIELD were probably hovering in the wings of the studio face palming already, but he knew shrugging wasn’t an answer.

“Well, I guess. You know,” and damn if he wasn’t sweating through his silver dress shirt. He tried to school his face, but he might look a little cagey, too, and wouldn’t that look great on the morning show? “Work hard and set goals? Don’t take anyone’s sh—crap, I guess.” He sighed inwardly a little, and relaxed his shoulders. Maybe he could bullshit his way now. He was good at bullshit.

This reporter, though, was a persistent fuck. His crisp grey suit and short blond hair and his green, piercing eyes that were reading Clint like a goddamned book – he wasn’t going to take bullshit answers. Clint knew that when the guy smiled again and chuckled. “Hawkeye, surely you can be a little more specific? The Avengers are beyond elite and are saving our world on a regular basis these days. Working hard won’t really get you out in the streets shooting alien invaders with a fancy crossbow, now, will it? There must be more that you could suggest.”

Clint wanted to walk off the stage. Steve was supposed to go on next and everyone’s waiting for that anyway. They usually put Steve or Tony last because everyone sticks around to listen to Steve or Tony. Clint usually goes first, but today he’d been running late to the studio. If he walked off the stage now they could throw Steve on and everyone would probably forget about Clint’s freeze after ten seconds.

Instead, Clint took a deep breath and figured the PR was fucked no matter how he handled this, so screw this reporter. He figured answering a reporter’s question in an unexpected way was almost as good as answering a lawyer’s question in an unexpected way, plus it was on television for a lot of people to see.

“Look,” he said. “I shoot things for a living. You do realize that’s what I do, right? That the only way The Avengers could end up with me on their team is if I’ve shot a _lot_ of things before all of this, right?” The reporter nods, but Clint doesn’t intend to let him redirect. “I’ve been shooting since I was fourteen and it hasn’t always been _target practice_ , you know? So no, I’m not in a position to give young kids advice. If you asked me to give them advice on how to end up on an elite team fighting aliens and crazy people to protect citizens, I’d tell them to run the other way.”

Clint felt his skin getting hot, felt his face flush and his palms sweat. He had to fight not to raise his voice. “I didn’t set out to become a superhero. It never crossed my mind when I was learning to shoot. It _never_ crossed my mind. The world didn’t need superheroes then, and I sure as hell wasn’t doing superhero things where I was growing up. I don’t think of myself as one now, either. I’m just a punk kid from Iowa who’s good at shooting things. And when you’re good at shooting things, well, you’re probably going to have to do some things you’re not happy with at some point _before_ you’re hanging out with Captain America. And those things? Those things don’t put you in a position to hand out advice to _kids_.”

The reporter was silent for several beats, and Clint just glared at him, watched him wilt a little.

“Well, Hawkeye. Thank you for being so candid in your response. We’ll be right back with Captain America after the break, ladies and gentlemen.”

Clint didn’t even bother to look at the reporter as he stalked off stage. He didn’t look at Steve, who was waiting to say hi before going on stage. He headed straight for an exit and ignored the shouts from PR and the assistant director of the show. He would have slammed the door to the studio if it were possible, but he settled for taking the stairs up to the lobby two at a time and bursting out the front doors to the building.

 Natasha was sitting on a bench waiting and staring. “You still have your makeup on,” she said as he sat down next to her and put his head in his hands.

“I know,” he mumbled without looking up.

“That didn’t go well,” she said, matter-of-fact. “You shouldn’t have answered.”

“It was a bullshit question. He deserved what I gave him.”

“Did the audience deserve it?” she asked quietly.

Clint brought his head up and leveled a glare at her. “Yes.”

She looked surprised. “Yes?”

Clint nodded and looked away for a moment. “Yes. Does anyone realize that we’re killers who just try to keep them safe? We’re not goddamned heroes.” After a pause he added, “Well, Steve and Thor might be heroes. Not the rest of us, though.  It was a stupid question.”

She leaned into his shoulder and he sighed. They sat for a moment before she said, “PR is gonna have your head for this one.”

“Maybe they’ll finally realize I shouldn’t do interviews,” he replied, standing up. “I’m going back to the Tower. You coming?”

“I have a meeting to go to,” she answered, walking with him toward the parking garage.

They said goodbye and Clint rode back to the Tower, showered, and changed into his jeans and favorite hoodie. He didn’t feel like being in Avenger territory for a while, so decided to go get coffee at a nearby shop.  He took his tablet and intended to fold himself into a comfy chair in the corner of the shop and read for a while, try to forget the mess he made of the interview earlier that day. He’d ignored a couple phone calls and didn’t want to think about it for a while, and coffee and the latest comic book downloads should distract him for a while.

He sat for a few minutes, trying to read while his coffee cooled a little, but he was distracted by a group of young teenagers at a nearby table. The oldest couldn’t have been more than fifteen or so, and they had books spread across their table haphazardly, clearly feigning a study group.

The older kid, with a rough, deep voice too old for his body, said, “Did you guys see the interview with the Avengers this morning?”

The other three guys nodded and one of them snickered. “Hawkeye was an asshole.”

Clint drew his hood a little closer and was surprised at the sting of that remark. He tried to focus on his tablet, but curiosity got the better of him.

“I thought that reporter was an asshole,” a kid who was small and stocky said. “Hawkeye just told the truth.”

“He was an asshole. Guy just asked him to give advice. He coulda made something up, even if he didn’t want to. They’re supposed to be cool.”

Clint sighed into his cup. Cool he was not. Tony was cool, Thor was cool.  Clint really didn’t give a fuck about being cool.

“Nah, they’re supposed to save people’s lives. He does that. I saw him take out three aliens in five seconds on a YouTube video last week. It was amazing,” the stocky kid said.

“They seem like soldiers, but they’re not,” one boy said, speaking up for the first time. Clint snuck a look at him and saw a small blond kid with stormy blue eyes and pale skin. He had on a sweatshirt and jeans and looked . . . unobtrusive. Clint thought he saw a fading bruise on his cheekbone.“I bet he’s killed a lot of people. That’s what he meant.”

“What? Did he say he killed people?” the guy who hadn’t bothered joining in said, suddenly taking interest in the conversation.

“No,” one boy said.

“He said he shot things other than targets even before he was an Avenger,” the small kid said. “He was talking about killing people.”

“Like in the Army,” the oldest kid retorted.

The small kid shrugged. “Didn’t seem like that’s what he was talking about. He sounded angry.  Maybe a little bit sad, not proud like a soldier. That reporter was pushy.”

Clint realized he was rapt, his coffee cup halfway to his lips as the boy spoke.

“You’re an idiot. He was just being a jerk. He probably hates kids,” the older one replied.

The smaller boy shrugged and dug his pencil out of his backpack. “Maybe, but I just think he’s honest. Sounds like he wasn’t a normal kid with a normal life, so maybe he really doesn’t have any idea what to say to kids. I know _I_ wouldn’t know how to give advice to normal kids.”

One of the other boys leaned over and ruffled the small kid’s hair affectionately. “You’ll get normal someday, Max. Once your asshole dad leaves the picture.”

“And stops stealing drugs,” another boy added, only to receive a glare from Max.

“I’ll get normal when I get out of this shithole of a city and get out on my own. That’s when I’ll get normal,” Max said harshly.

Clint heard the bitterness that was all too familiar in the boy’s voice. It was an echo of his own voice at fourteen, and it made him sad to hear it here.

The boy sounded strong, Clint thought. Clint liked him. And he wondered, as he watched them finally dig into studying, maybe he could give kids like _that_ advice. Kids who were just stuck in a crappy situation and trying to get out. Kids with fading bruises and asshole fathers. He knew about those things. Maybe he had something to say to _those kids_.

But not as a superhero.

As a survivor.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I have a tumblr! Westgateoh is its name! (if you're interested)


End file.
